


Les Yeux Ouverts

by Amymimi



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Bistro, F/M, Heartbreak, Paris (City)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:20:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29441061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amymimi/pseuds/Amymimi
Summary: Six months after the end of the war, Charles Emerson Winchester is sent to Paris for a surgical conference.  Little does he know, but part of him is there.
Relationships: Martine LeClerc/Charles Emerson Winchester III
Comments: 8
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There are so few of this pairing on here. Hopefully some of you have been in search of it! Also, if my command of French is bad, please send me a message or leave feedback so I can correct it!

His hands in his pockets, Charles Emerson Winchester shuddered at the cold wind blowing down the Boulevard Saint-Michel, his thick wool trench coat providing him little warmth. He’d been sent to yet another surgical conference to receive hands-on instruction in regards to France’s new heart-lung machine prototype and bring his knowledge back to the department of thoracic surgery at Boston Mercy.

And yet, it wasn’t the conference that was the reason for his wandering down this particular street on a Tuesday in January of 1954. The Médecine Paris Centre at the University of Paris, the source of the conference, was nearly a half a mile away now and yet he kept walking further and further away from it.

 _Nude at a Picnic_. It was at some bistro along the Boulevard Saint-Michel, a road he’d discovered had quite the collection of bistros. The lunch hour for the conference was nearly over and yet he had not turned around to get back to the conference. He was determined to find this painting.

Yet why did it matter, anyway? Surely Martine LeClerc, the subject of the painting, was aware of this international thoracic surgeons’ conference occurring here in her hometown of Paris this week. And surely Martine would not be sitting at a table in front of the painting, smiling at the faces that recognized her and waiting for him to arrive. Might something have happened to her since they last spoke nearly six months ago now? Might she have moved on with another man in another country? Wherever she was now, he hoped that she was happy and content. She deserved that as much, not someone who could not accept her for who she was.

He stroked the wad of francs in his pocket with his thumb, a little smile appearing on his chapped lips. That painting was as good as his.

* * *

Charles entered the Bistrot Saint-Michel, one of now thirteen bistros he’d visited in the past two days. In the former twelve bistros, he’d walked in as casually as possible, ignoring the maître d’ as his eyes scanned the walls, before he turned around, muttering an excuse in English. Thankfully, most of these bistros were little more than small holes in the wall, with the entirety of the restaurant visible from the front door. And yet, it was clear when he stepped into the Bistrot Saint-Michel that he might have some luck finding the painting here.

The entire right wall of the restaurant was covered in paintings of all sorts: still lifes, landscapes, portraits, even impressionism. He stepped further into the small restaurant, thankfully ignored by the waitresses, his blue eyes moving from one artwork to another and settling upon one that hung above an oddly isolated little table, a painting done in landscape. He was no art connoisseur but he was able to see now that there was most certainly a naked person in the painting. 

“ _Puis-je vous asseoir_?” the maître d’ asked, and now Charles was distracted, turning around abruptly to see the man touching him on the back.

“No francais. Anglais,” Charles said with a frown. He’d been stupid to leave his little translation book in his hotel, but he’d been beginning to lose hope of ever finding the painting.

“A seat, Monsieur?”

“That one,” Charles said, pointing to the table in front of the nude.

“ _Tres bien_.” 

Charles took a seat in front of the painting and peered up at it. It was most certainly Martine there on the picnic blanket surrounded by wildflowers, her sandy brown hair blowing in the wind, the impeccable arc of her eyebrows as she looked directly at the viewer. She lie on her stomach in the painting, her legs bent and feet bent daintily back toward her body. It was certainly a tastefully done painting, and he wanted it.

“The painting,” he said, as a waiter came to his table. He pointed at the artwork but the waiter shook his head.

“ _Je ne comprends pas_ , Monsieur.”

“La _peinture_ ,” Charles said, pointing again. Thankfully he had memorized that particular word.

“Ah, _la peinture_. _Et alors_?”

Charles smiled, pulling out the wad of money. He’d rehearsed the next phrase too many times to count.

“ _Je veux l’acheter_.”

* * *

“Monsieur,” the maître d’ commented, “what is your interest in _la peinture_?”

“Well, first, I would like you to tell me about it.”

“A man named Philippe Moreau painted that. It is of his friend.”

“Does this _friend_ have a name?”

“ _Oui_ , Martine.”

“ _Oui_ , _notre_ Martine,” a waiter added, walking past with food on his tray. The answer to the next question Charles already knew, but it was a way to find out more without appearing too bold.

“Does Martine… work here?” 

Now the maître d’ laughed.

“She does not work here but she comes here often enough.”

“Recently?”

“ _Certainement_. She stops by at lunch time on Mondays, sometimes other days.”

“I would like to buy this painting from you.”

“I’m sorry, but that is not possible.”

“Why not?” He pulled out a section of his wad of francs, fanning them out for the waiter to see. “I have the money right here. Name your price.”

“I think you will have to speak with Mademoiselle. She has a connection with that painting.”

“It’s now Tuesday—how am I to do that, seeing as she stops in on Mondays? Do you have her contact information, by any chance?”

“Are all you Americans so pushy like this? I will call her and see where we go from there, _n’est-ce pas_?”


	2. Waiting

Charles left the surgical conference well before lunch hour even began to ensure he would make it to the restaurant before Martine was due to arrive. What was he thinking, arranging this impromptu meeting? Was it not clear to him that she did not want to see him? Here he was, at a large international conference in her town, and yet, she had not made an appearance.

When he'd arrived at the Bistrot Saint-Michel, he was recognized by the maître d’ and brought to that same table in front of the painting. Charles waited for what seemed to be an eternity, touching his still-empty wine glass, his heart thudding in his chest. What if she didn’t come? What if she _did_?

He had ordered the most expensive wine and sat with it remaining corked, his eyes darting up to the painting every couple of seconds. He hadn’t instructed the maître d’ to refer to him by name due to the very reasonable fear he had that she would simply not come. There was always the chance that the maître d’ had described his appearance to her, which would surely spark recognition in her.

He glanced down again at his wristwatch, and abruptly stood up. Why was he doing this, and now of all times? His life was falling quite nicely into place: he was now Chief of Thoracic Surgery at Boston Mercy with a life of wealth and privilege once again available to him. Why did he wish to check up on Martine LeClerc, the bohemian Frenchwoman he knew his family would reject, the bohemian Frenchwoman he himself had rejected? And yet, he knew very well that nothing would come of this, even if she were to join him at the bistro today. He would only be in town another three days and then he was back to Boston and back on the trajectory expected of him. He would have his pick of wife from the elite Boston Brahmin class, have one or perhaps two children, and eventually be appointed to the board of Harvard Medical School just in time to watch his youngest graduate from the very place.

He sat back down now, his face troubled. A hope grew in him that she would simply not come and he could forget this error in judgement. Paris, the city of romance, had somehow stirred these latent feelings in him. 

Charles looked back up at the painting again. Martine’s elbow was on the picnic blanket and she was holding up a cluster of grapes, her mouth curved into a smile as she looked at the painter. It was a rather good painting, a somehow tasteful nude that was able to accurately capture her likeness. He would not be buying the painting today.

* * *

The little bell attached to the door tinkled as the door to the Bistro Saint-Michel opened. Charles took a deep breath and held it in his chest, wincing.

It was a young man. He sighed a slow, long sigh, the air emptying out of him like a deflating life raft. Perhaps she would not come. It was now two minutes past their scheduled meeting time at 11:30 am. Charles frowned at the bottle of wine—perhaps he should just leave it here for the next lucky customer. He stood up from the table, thrusting his hands in his pockets.

“Where are you going?” the maître d’ asked, and he could not reply.

Instead, he strode to the front door, having left the expensive wine behind, simultaneously full of bitter disappointment and intense relief.

It was then that the door opened right in his face. With an _oof_ , he staggered backwards against the line of barstools. 

“Charlie?”

* * *

“It is so good to see you, Charlie,” Martine murmured, drinking some of the expensive wine that Charles had since opened, as they sat opposite each other in front of the painting. “What brings you to Paris?”

“You don’t know?” he said, flashing her a look of confusion. Her expression changed then to bewilderment.

“I cannot imagine you came all the way across the Atlantic to buy a painting!”

“I’m at a surgical conference,” he blurted. She raised an eyebrow.

“Oh? Where is that?”

“The University of Paris. They are demonstrating their new heart-lung machine. I am surprised you hadn’t heard about it. What have you been doing since… Korea?”

“Let’s see,” she considered, touching her chin and looking up at the tin ceiling. “I have been working through the red cross to help _réfugiés_ of the war find their families. I also did a tour of Europe to gather information on the number of casualties from each country so that accurate counts can be made. I believe the number of dead to be an underestimate.”

“It certainly sounds like you’ve been very busy.”

“ _Oui_ , _si beaucoup_. It has only been for the last month or so that I am back home, in Paris. _Et toi_ , Charlie? What about you?”

“I am now back in the States in my new career as Chief of Thoracic Surgery at Boston Mercy Hospital. It was a position for which I had been striving before being shipped off to Korea. Now, it’s almost as if the war never happened.”

What he’d said seemed to sadden her, her eyes moving to the table now. Charles could not help but gulp.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“Why do you want to buy this painting?” she blurted, gesturing at the painting. “Or is this not about the painting at all?”

Charles could only stare at her now, this woman he had deeply hurt only six months ago, this woman who had looked forward to a life with him. What in the world could he say to her: that he’d simply entertained the notion of catching up with her? That he in fact thought of little else but his cold rejection of someone he’d grown to care about so deeply in such a short time? Or that he’d made a mistake in letting her go?

“When I’d been told I was being sent to Paris for this conference,” he began, “I could not help but think of you.”

She looked guarded but intrigued.

“In what way?”

“I’m not entirely sure. I wasn’t even certain that I was going to see you at all.”

“I see. Well, now that I know it is you and not some art dealer, I suppose I can be assured that the painting will remain here.”

Charles sighed, sipping the last of the wine from his glass.

“If that is what you want.”

“What do you mean, if that is what I want? I wanted _you_ , Charlie. And yet, it is now that you choose to honor my wishes regarding some… silly painting? _Non_.”

Her words cut him deeply and he felt himself blush with shame, his breathing quickening. Had her feelings for him not changed?

“I am deeply sorry for how I ended our time together,” he murmured. “It was wrong to treat you that way.”

“Why are you apologizing to me? If you still feel the same way, then you are not sorry.”

He bowed his head then, rendered speechless by her sharp words. And yet, they were the words of a woman who was deeply hurt by his rejection, a woman who had clearly cared about him more than he’d even realized. He was at an impasse with his own mind—he wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of these three days beside Martine, and yet he was not so sure as to what he desired after that point. Perhaps he should just be brutally honest with her and gauge her response.

“Martine, there are some aspects of my life that are predetermined—set in stone, as it were. And yet, in spite of that, I decided to seek that painting out, for the express purpose of spending more time with you.”

“How _much_ time? An hour? A day?”

“Three days,” he said, his face stricken.

“But what about your _conférence_? Surely you do not wish to miss learning new things.”

“I wish to learn new things about _you_.”

Now she was shaking her head and softly chuckling.

“But why, Charlie?” she replied, sipping her wine. “I am the one you rejected. Do you believe I would like to spend three days falling for you again only to have you reject me a second time? _Non, merci_. I think I will pass.”

He could see her sigh now, the hope in her leaving with her exhalation of breath. 

“Please reconsider,” Charles offered, his face earnest, as he reached forward, touching her hand. “I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

The look he received was that of confusion, Martine rapidly blinking as she formulated a reply.

“What are you saying? That you will not reject me? Or perhaps you plan to… leave in the middle of the night, while I am sleeping, not having to say the words.” She shook her head. “And yet, my heart will break all the same. _Non_.”

It was then that Martine stood up, pulling her thick winter coat around her body out of protectiveness or in preparation for the bitter cold outside the bistro. Charles gaped up at her from his low vantage point now, his face in turmoil.

“Is there nothing I can say to make you stay here for just a little while longer?”

“Is this some kind of American way, you teasing your interest in me? I don’t think you know how difficult it was for me to allow myself to fall again… and then you rip it away the very next day.” She reached out, running her thumb delicately along his clean-shaven jawline. “I can see now that time may have changed your thoughts, but it has not changed your heart. _Au revoir_ , Charlie.”

Now Charles stood up abruptly. She could not leave him again. How could he convince her to stay without hurting her again? Was it truly impossible for them to spend any more time together?

“What can I say to make you stay?” he blurted, to see her turn her head. She was not smiling.

“You have already said enough.”


	3. Persistance

**CHAPTER 3 - Persistence**

Charles watched Martine as she opened the front door of the bistro and left without so much as a look back. Should he attempt to follow her down the Boulevard Saint-Michel? What if she had taken a car here and would be gone in an instant? Never again would he be able to contact her through the maître d’. This was his last chance to speak to the only woman who he’d most certainly fallen for, the only woman who had ever made him cry. Some mysterious force had drawn him to Paris, had drawn him to seek out this painting, had drawn him to meet its subject. It was six months ago that he let Martine LeClerc walk out of the Swamp without stopping her, and now fate had brought them together in the City of Love.

“Martine,” Charles called out, seeing her retreating figure striding quickly up the boulevard. Now he was jogging on the slush- and salt-covered sidewalk, panic rising in his throat. How could he feel so much for someone he barely knew?

As he reached her, he touched her coat, which compelled her to stop walking.

“What are you doing, Charlie?,” she countered, her voice thick with emotion as she crossed her arms, drawing the flaps of her thick coat together. He could see now that her eyes were red-rimmed.

“Please let me make up to you. If my actions in Korea made you feel anything like _I_ feel right now, then I…”

“ _Oui_ , they _did_. I was unhappy for many months after our goodbye. It is simply not healthy for me to go through that again. Please try to understand.”

“I propose that you allow us these three days to spend more time together. If you still feel nothing but heartache after that time, then you are free to tell me goodbye forever.”

“And what if I don’t? Then _you_ are free to tell me goodbye forever, _n’est-ce pas_?” She shook her head. “ _Non_. I cannot risk it. The wounds have not yet healed.”

“Yet you healed after Robert died, did you not? That was the death of a man you’d known for four years.”

“ _Oui_ , but he never left me. He died. There is a difference, _comprenez vous_?”

With that, she turned back around and began walking.

“Would you allow me to give you my contact information, in case you change your mind? If not, I understand completely and I will accept the outcome of my rash actions.”

“Will agreeing to this make you stop following me?”

“Yes.”

Now she dug in her purse, pulling out a pen and a little pad of paper.

“There. _S’il vous plait écrivez-le_.”

He wrote the name of the hotel where he was staying, its address, and his room number. The problem was that he didn’t actually know the telephone number of his hotel. 

“Here,” he said, handing her the pad of paper. “I imagine you can find the telephone number in the phone book,” he suggested.

“ _Merci beaucoup_ ,” she replied with a nod and a tight little smile.

“Might I request one last embrace?”

“In France, we kiss goodbye.”

He moved toward her then, his lips brushing against her own as her eyes widened with surprise.

“On the _cheeks_ , Charlie.”

* * *

Charles sat in bed in his hotel room that evening, wincing as he considered his behavior today. What had compelled him to act in such a way, practically begging to spend time with this woman? Now he was forced to remain in this hotel room until the moment he was due to leave for the airport, in the hope that Martine would change her mind and call him.

He glanced over at the silent phone in his room and sighed. He’d broken her heart, and now she was breaking his.

* * *

He’d been due to watch a detailed demonstration of the heart-lung machine at 8:00 am, but Charles simply remained in bed, lying beneath the covers drowning in dismay. Martine and he had only known each other for a matter of days, and yet he found himself to be craving her. He was in her very town, most likely within a mile of her own sleeping form, and yet he could not see her, could not speak to her.

Should he return to the bistro in the hope that she might also return? It was too risky. He would remain in his hotel room, having already informed the conference organizers of a sudden ailment so that he could miss the remainder of the conference. How ironic that he, a thoracic surgeon, was in Paris for a conference on the heart-lung machine, while himself suffering from acute heartsickness!

He lie in bed all morning reading a medical book, keeping himself within reach of his phone, within reach of possible contact.

It was at dinnertime that he was stirred from his sleep by the buzzing of his room telephone. 

“Hello?”

“ _Bonjour_ , Monsieur Winchester,” a man’s voice answered. Charles frowned, blinking rapidly with disappointment, his throat dry. In his impromptu hibernation, he hadn’t eaten a thing all day and had neglected to take a shower or shave. 

“ _Bonjour_ ,” he muttered back, wondering the reason for this call. 

“You have a guest to see you, in the lobby.”

“A guest? May I ask who it is?”

“ _Mais oui bien sûr_ , Monsier. Were you… not expecting someone?”

“Just tell me who it is, _s’il vou plaît_!”

“A Mademoiselle LeClerc. Should she expect you?”

“Yes— _oui_!” he said, leaping out of bed with a sudden jolt of energy. “Tell her to wait.”

* * *

Charles reached the lobby as quickly as he could, having not even had the time to comb his hair or gargle beforehand. He was so very certain that any delay could cause her to leave, to change her mind.

He was still out of breath when the elevator reached the lobby. There was Martine, sitting on a bench, bundled up in a thick coat in spite of the temperate conditions of the hotel.

“Martine,” Charles called out, striding across the lobby towards her. She stood up, a sad smile on her face. “I am so happy that you changed your mind.”

“I don’t know what I am doing here,” she murmured, clearly unsure of herself. He leaned in to kiss her on the cheeks and found her skin to be ice cold.

“Must be some weather out there,” he commented. “What would you like to do? Are you hungry?”

“I suppose I could eat.”

“May I take your coat?” He strode behind her, preparing to help her remove it, when she pulled away.

“ _Non_ , I would like to leave it on.”

Charles could not help but blink in confusion at the request, but he did not press the issue further.

* * *

They sat down in the hotel’s fine dining restaurant, Charles having pulled out a chair for her to be seated. Just as in the Officer’s club, Charles placed his hands at the edge of the table, leaning forward with interest as she fidgeted in her own chair.

“Thank you so much for coming to see me,” Charles began, his voice now no more than a whisper. “I must confess; I’ve been staying in my room all this time to ensure that I wouldn’t miss your call.”

“So you have missed your conference because of me?! Charlie, I do not wish to get you into trouble.”

“I have told them I am sick.”

“Sick? _Ça alors_! We should not be here. What if they see you?”

“I did not claim to be dying, Martine,” Charles replied with a chuckle. “Do the sick not require sustenance as well?”

“ _Je suppose_. And yet, we should not venture out into the cold.”

“There is plenty to do here,” he said with a smile. “The hotel has lots of amenities. It is almost like a self-contained city.”

“Right,” she said, glancing around nervously. “I must confess; I do not know what I am doing here. I am terrified that you will hurt me again. You will be leaving for your country in three days, then what?”

Charles lowered his head at her statement, a blush of shame on his cheeks now. He took a deep breath before lifting his head again to reply.

“I don’t know.”

They both fell silent for a time, with Charles frowning at the menu. Martine was not finished with her questioning.

“Are we still _incompatible_ , as you say?”

“Martine, I would like us to enjoy ourselves, not question what happened nearly six months ago. I should think that a detailed dissection of my admittedly harsh words will not be the best use of our short time together.”

“Then what would you have us do? Pretend as if you didn’t say those things, that you don’t still feel those things?”

“I don’t know how I feel!” he blurted. 

“At the bistro, you were begging me to stay. Now you are pulling away again. _Je suis désolé_ , Charlie, but I can see now where this is going.”

She stood up now and pulled her coat around her, Charles immediately rising to his feet as well.

“It was a mistake for me to come here,” she said, shaking her head now. “Goodbye, Charlie.”

* * *

Martine had nearly made it to the elevators when she felt Charles’s hand reach out and grip her arm. 

“I cannot find the words to adequately explain my feelings,” he began, turning her so that she was facing him, “so may I show you instead?”

“Charlie, I—”

As he bowed his head, his lips uniting with hers, she stopped speaking but did not pull away. After a moment or two, she wrapped her arms around him. Now Charles embraced her in kind, their bodies pressed against each other in the hallway. The elevator opened behind them and they both moved in concert toward the open car.

When they entered his room, the light was off and the curtains were drawn, the room cloaked in darkness. Charles felt in the darkness for the switch.

“Perhaps I should turn on the—”

“ _Non_ ,” she countered, and he felt her clutching his wrist now. “The dark is good.”

* * *

Charles woke up curled behind Martine, her small slender body nestled into the spaces of his larger, hairier form. He’d draped his arm over her arm and moved it slowly downward, reveling in the smoothness of her skin, the intermingling scent of her perfume and perspiration dancing in his nose, the little moan she emitted at his touch. When his hand reached her abdomen, he found it to be unexpectedly firm. 

Charles swallowed then, frowning in the dark. It was now that he regretted having closed the curtains yesterday. Not only had he been unable to appreciate seeing her as they made love, but now he could not inspect her abdomen. Did she have a tumor? When they decided to wake up and turn on the lights, he would offer to examine her. For now, he placed his hand on her abdomen, snuggling his face into her chestnut hair.

It was then he felt it—a quickening.

The blood drained from his face and he felt dizzy now, short of breath, terrified.

“Martine,” he murmured, his face very close to her ear now, his hand frozen on her turgid abdomen. She sighed.

“Mmm… What is it, Charlie?”

“Are you… with child?”


End file.
